


Facing Forward

by yoshizora



Category: Xenoblade Chronicles
Genre: Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:48:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27298930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yoshizora/pseuds/yoshizora
Summary: Fiora says her final good-byes to the last of the Faced Mechon.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 27





	Facing Forward

**Author's Note:**

> i've always kinda wondered what happened to the faced mechon that showed up to help defend colony 6 from the telethia. presumably they help rebuild the new colony then die off, i guess.
> 
> writer's block sucks! this was meant to be a quick warm-up of sorts.

It rains the day after the Bionis falls. It rains heavy, gray drops to cleanse the world anew, once nothing but the bacteria of a God too magnificent for its germs to fully comprehend. A piece of the God had broken away and fallen into the sea, shaken but afloat. The survivors are resilient and laugh it off.

Fiora doesn’t sleep that night.

They had gathered in a partially-collapsed house, where they all crashed down into piles on mattresses and blankets when they couldn’t be bothered to set up proper cots. Shulk was the first to fall asleep. One of Reyn’s legs ended up crossed over his chest and Riki found a warm spot in the crook behind his knee, and Sharla dozes with a hand resting on his shoulder. Dunban eventually fell asleep sitting upright and cross-legged with his back to the wall, his sword balanced on his knees. Melia is curled up in a pile of pillows. To see them all at peace is enough— more than enough, and so Fiora ventures outside without making a sound.

Gravel beneath steel soles make way to sand. It’s wet and mushy from all the rain, and the sea is agitated.

The Faced Mechon have gathered at the beach, waiting.

”`Meyneth’s vessel`,” they murmur amongst themselves. ”`It is her.`”

She winces at the reminder. Their eyes glow red in the darkness, trained on her. They make her think of Metal Face, and she pushes the memory aside before it can make her throat close up.

“All of you…” she says, now uncertain. They watch her expectantly. It isn’t as though she had the time to prepare a speech. Fiora places a hand over her chest, where Meyneth’s Monado used to be.

“Thank you, everyone.”

“`It was all we could do,`” says one, its voice deep and raspy. The Faced Mechon crouches as low as it can so that Fiora doesn’t have to crane her neck up. This one has ether burns trailing down its sides, no doubt from a Telethia. “`Was it enough?`”

“More than enough.”

The rainwater drips down their hulls in rivulets. Their bodies creak and groan in tandem, as if merely flexing their joints is a great effort. It… probably is, Fiora realizes. She wipes droplets out of her eyes and tries to catch her breath.

“We found an ancient restoration chamber just outside Tephra Cave,” she says, struggling to keep up with her own optimistic beat. To be heard over the sea and drumming rain, she has to practically shout. “Melia and Vanea took a look at it and said it could reverse what had been done! Isn’t that wonderful? I’m sorry I didn’t have the time to tell you all earlier. We can finally use it, now that the fighting is properly over.”

She imagines the warmth of the sun upon her face. Hot soup will burn her tongue, and she will be able to taste salt. She’d forgotten the sensation of dry, crumbling dirt falling through her fingers. When it’s cold, she’ll wear sweaters. And… oh, she’ll be able to feel how soft Riki’s fur is.

She brings her fingertips up to her eyes, thinking she had started crying, but it’s just the rain.

”`Not us, miss,`” says one of the Faced Mechon. Its jaw clatters. The hinge is loose and it creaks when the Faced Mechon speaks. ”`Not us.`”

Fiora balls her hands into fists. “You can’t say that.”

”`We already spoke to Miss Vanea. It would take months for you to be restored.`”

“`Aye. There’s only one chamber, besides.`”

“`Can’t fit us all in there.`”

“So one of you will go first! I don’t mind waiting for my turn!” Fiora says, even though she knows. She regrets being unable to cry. The least she could do is shed one tear for them. “There has to be _some_ way…”

”`None of us were built for longevity.`”

That’s the truth. Egil constructed the Mechon to be sturdy in battle, not to live out long years like the Machina. They’re weapons, abominations that should never have been.

They need to get out of the rain— they’ll rust, she thinks.

Their existence really is a cruel thing. Robbed of their flesh, of their memories, and left as nothing but blood coursing through a machine. When they were forced to reckon with the memories of a tragedy they had nothing to do with, their only will was to follow Egil’s hatred. Then that hatred dissipated into the ether and they carried out his final request: to protect.

That was more than enough.

Fiora extends an arm, lightly pressing her palm against the closest Faced Mechon’s mask. She can perceive how cold it is, and the wetness of the rain drawn together into droplets and rivulets, but the sensation isn’t really there. The person who was taken and put into this machine isn’t really there, either. Her jaw clenches as she tries to imagine the sorrow it must feel, but these things feel even less than she does.

This Faced Mechon was once a soldier. Someone's brother or father or son. They'll never be able to identify them.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

The rain is finally beginning to let up, settling down into a light drizzle. A glimmer of moonlight finds its way through the clouds. The Mechon strike eerie figures out here in the darkness, lit only by those bright red eyes.

“`Can’t remember a thing. Never will.`”

“`It’s not so bad, now.`”

“`No regrets here, miss.`”

There’s no point in arguing. Forcing them to extend their lifespans would be a prison sentence. It’s cruel, so cruel. After the great toll of battling off the Telethia, they likely have less than a month to live. Fiora knew that all along. Accepting the mortality of others had always been more difficult than dealing with her own.

“Then… I guess this is good-bye.” She wishes she could at least impart some final words from Meyneth, or Egil. “Everyone will be bringing me to the restoration chamber first thing in the morning.”

“`Good, good.`”

One of the Faced Mechon steps forward, legs sinking into the wet sand. This one only has one arm; the other one had been torn clean off by the Telethia. Compared to some of the others, it's actually better off. “`Think they could make somethin’ nice out of my hull? Maybe one of those fancy shuttles the bird people got…`”

The sky finally clears, spilling moonlight over their battered bodies. Fiora gently touches the face of the one who spoke.

“Yeah. I promise, we'll honor all your last wishes.”


End file.
